


between the gates

by nasa



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Getting Back Together, M/M, Sharing a Room, they be stuck, tony is v angsty about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasa/pseuds/nasa
Summary: “Have a lovely evening,” the flight attendant says, like nothing at all is wrong. And, really, nothing is - except for the fact Tony’s snowed in at an airport, sharing a room with the ex who broke his heart five years ago, who he was never able to get over. Totally great.





	between the gates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [royal_chandler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/gifts).



> hi royal_chandler!! this is for your prompt 'stuck in an airport'. i initially tried to write bby steve and tony meeting when they were stuck at an airport but i just can't write meet cutes, so you get this instead! i hope you enjoy!! happy holidays :)

Tony’s in line for coffee at the Denver Airport Starbucks, weighing the merits of a venti (more caffeine) against a grande (less need to pee mid-flight) when he hears his name.

“Tony?”

The speaker’s tone is faint and disbelieving, but Tony still recognizes the voice immediately. It’s been five years since he last heard it in real life, but it still comes to him in dreams, sometimes. He’s often thought that, somewhere in the back of his mind, it will always linger.

Tony turns, and sure enough, it’s him. He looks exactly the same as when Tony last saw him, perched awkwardly in Bucky’s spot on the couch, brows pinched and lips bitten as he told Tony he couldn’t do this anymore, he’s sorry, it just isn’t right. He’d left Tony there, and Tony, unable to bear staying in this apartment any longer, had all but sprinted out of there. He hadn’t been able to sleep that night, or for a good while after, plagued with bad dreams and empty beds, his heart squashed to a pulp in his chest. He’d never really recovered.

“Steve,” Tony says.

-

Tony had been twenty-two when he met Steve, at the VA, of all places. He had never been down there before, but Rhodey talked about the great work being done there often enough that Tony had felt that now-familiar guilty pull to help. He went on a Saturday, posing as someone whose brother was returning home from war soon and wanted to check out the facilities for him. The obliging man at the front desk offered to give him a tour. He was a volunteer, he told Tony; his name was Steve.

Another important fact about him that Tony noticed right away was that he was smoking hot. It was an observation he managed to keep to himself, despite how much it wanted to spill right out of his lips, but it was a little distracting. He tried to pay attention to the facility as much as he could, making notes on his phone about what needed funding or upgrades or just could look a little cooler, but he kept getting distracted by the perfect inverted triangle of Steve’s back muscles, or the gentle sway of his ass in his perfectly fit sweatpants.

They made it almost halfway through the tour before Steve noticed what Tony was doing. “What are you taking notes on?” he asked curiously, leaning over and squinting at the screen before Tony could close the app and make up a sufficient lie. “Are those - are you making a list of flaws?”

“What?? No, not at all -“ Tony started, only, yeah, that was pretty much exactly what he was doing.

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, jaw set. “Look, buddy,” he started, in a tone Tony would later come to dub the Captain-America tone, after the comic book superhero he worshipped as a kid, “I know we’re not perfect, but we help. I’m a veteran, and this place has done so much for me, despite the old basketball hoops and leaky faucets -“

“No,” Tony finally managed to interrupt, “You don’t understand, that’s not what this is.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve said. “Then tell me, smart guy, what is it?”

Tony swallowed. It was supposed to be anonymous, but - Steve kept glaring at him, and Tony sighed and broke. “I’m making a donation,” Tony said, and Steve’s expression flickered with surprise. Tony continued, “My friend, he loves it here, but I know you guys are underfunded and I happen to have some spare cash. I just wanted to have a glance around, see how much you guys needed, what I could do to help.”

The barest of frowns curled around Steve’s lips. “Couldn’t you just ask in the office? They do this stuff officially.”

“Yeah, I could, but not anonymously. My friend - I don’t want him to know that I’m the one who did it. He’d get - weird about it, and I don’t want that.”

Steve was still squinting down at him like he’s blurry. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony said, uncomfortable. “What can I say. I’m an awfully nice guy.”

Steve expression didn’t change, but Tony could see the moment he decides to accept the excuse because Steve’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. “Okay,” he said, and resumed the tour.

This time, though, he started pointing out specific things - mold on the ceiling of the locker rooms, the half-rusted refrigerator in the kitchen, a cracked window in the office. As they went, they started chatting - mainly about Rhodey, at first, and then Steve’s own friends Bucky and Sam, before eventually they drifted off the topic of the VA entirely. When they finally returned to the front desk and the tour comes to a close, Tony found himself unexpectedly disappointed.

“Well,” Tony said, pausing at the counter. Steve’s coworker Natasha had disappeared for lunch the second they arrived back, so it was just the two of them now. “That was very informative. Thanks for showing me around.”

“My pleasure,” Steve said with a smile, and the thing was, he actually sounded like he means it. He chewed his lip for a second and Tony was just about to cut his losses and leave when Steve said, “Actually, uh, I know the charity office can be kind of slow to respond to emails, so I thought maybe, if you’re interested, I could give you my number?”

A smile slipped out that Tony couldn’t hold back. “Yeah,” he said, trying to tamp down the ridiculously warm tone he knows saturates his voice. “That’d be great.”

-

Now, Tony sits across from Steve at a grimy food-court table, wondering, not for the first time, how the hell it all went wrong. He can’t ask that, though, so instead he picks at the heat sleeve on his coffee cup and says, “So. How’s Bucky doing?”

Steve, who’s looking just as awkward as Tony feels, brightens considerably at the question. “Good!” he says. “Good. He’s finished up his P.T. and his new prosthetic is awesome, works practically like a real arm. He says it doesn’t even pinch at all.”

“That’s good,” Tony says, and then can’t think of anything else to say.

Luckily, Steve barrels on. “He’s actually engaged now. To - you’re not going to believe this - Sam.”

Tony’s brows shoot up. “Sam?” he asks incredulously. “Para-rescue, your other best friend Sam?”

Steve nods, grinning. “I know, right? Shocked the hell out of all of us when they told us they were dating - apparently we’re idiots though, because they’d been hate fucking for months before that. I was shocked but not surprised, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, whistling. “Damn.” It’s one of the things Tony’s regretted most about his breakup with Steve: falling out of touch with Steve’s friends. They were all such amazing people, but they were Steve’s first, so of course he would get them in the divorce. It’s only fair. If Rhodey had taken Steve’s side, Tony might have rioted.

“Anyway,” Steve says, looking down at his coffee. “How are you? How’s Rhodey?”

“Rhodey’s good,” Tony says, carefully dodging the first question. He’s an adult, they’re both adults; he should be able to hold a civil conversation with Steve, and if that means avoiding the fact that Tony’s life has been steadily deteriorating since they broke up, well. It needs to be done. “He’s back in Afghanistan. Third tour.”

“Oh, man,” Steve says. “I’m sorry, Tony, I didn’t realize.”

Tony shrugs it off. “It’s his job. He’s a career military man. He’s always going to be deployed. Anyway, he’s doing good. Got promoted last year, been real smug about that.”

Steve hums. “And how are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Tony says vaguely.

Steve waits for a moment, like he’s expecting Tony to go on, but Tony just takes another glug of his drink. It tastes wrong, too bitter - he’d gotten distracted by Steve and forgot to ask for a pump of sugar. Fitting.

Finally, Steve sighs. “Look, Tony,” he starts, and, oh, God, Tony recognizes that tone, that we need to have a conversation tone, one he only pulled out for special occasions, occasions like dumping Tony. “I really - I’m sorry, for not reaching out to you these past years, I just -“

“You know what,” Tony interrupts, pushing his chair back from the table with a screech. Half a dozen faces whip around to look at him, but he ignores them. “I can’t do this.”

“Tony -“ Steve starts, but Tony shakes his head and cuts him off again.

“No,” Tony says, “No, you already broke my heart once, you’re not doing it again.”

He grabs his coffee cup from the table, slinging his carry-on over his shoulder, and books it for the gate before Steve can say another word. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and he half-expects Steve to chase after him, like a scene in a movie, calling Tony’s name. He doesn’t, though, and Tony isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

-

Their relationship had been - staggering.

Tony had fallen in love with Steve harder and faster than he would have imagined possible. Steve took him out on date after wonderful date, to the park, to the science museum, to a little patisserie where they ate rose macarons and argued about which Die Hard was better. Steve showed Tony his paintings, and Tony showed Steve his lab; they met each others friends and, in Steve’s case, mom; they slept together under perpetually sweaty sheets, bodies tangled, sucking sweat from collarbones and kisses from lips. Within a month, Tony knew he loved Steve, but he tucked it away inside himself, between his lungs and his ribcage, ready to break free.

Steve had been the one to say it first, because he always was the braver one. They had been cooking dinner together, Tony about to burn the string beans because he never did learn how to cook, and Steve had just said it, real quiet. I love you, you know. Tony had almost dropped the pan in his shock, sure he must have misheard, but when he whirled around Steve was just smiling at him. I love you, he’d said again, and Tony had launched himself forward into Steve’s arms, letting the beans burn. I love you, too he had said. I love you, too.

They dated for two years. In many senses, they were the best two years of Tony’s life, two years he thinks he won’t ever be able to top again. He’d been so happy, then, so steadily enthusiastic, and sometimes he remembers with an ache what that burning excitement had felt like. He had thought it was going somewhere, him and Steve. He had been so sure. The present was amazing but the future would be even better. Nothing could ever surpass Steve.

-

Of course, about ten minutes after he leaves Steve at the food court, Tony runs into him again, because life is fun like that.

Well, run into is a strong phrase. He spots him again - standing at the ticket counter for the very flight Tony is preparing to board, having an easy chat with the flight attendant. Honestly, Tony should have expected that - it’s not like it’s realistic to think Steve would have moved. He’s Steve. New York has probably wormed its way into his DNA at this point.

Tony stares at Steve too long, and Steve must feel it because he turns and catches Tony’s eye. Immediately, Tony looks down, double-checking the security of his headphones over his ears and trying to refocus on the movie playing on his phone. For a moment when he looks back up again, he thinks Steve has gone, before he spots his characteristically ruffled blonde hair a few rows away, his back to Tony. Tony wonders if he did that as a favor to Tony or himself.

Tony forces himself to focus on his phone. He just has to get through the next few hours, and then he’ll be home and this will all be like some strange dream. He can tell Rhodey about it, maybe, next time Tony gets to call him, and Rhodey will grumble and Tony will laugh and it will lighten this sudden weight in his chest. It’ll be fine.

Tony’s so concentrated on his movie that he doesn’t hear it when the flight attendant makes an announcement about the status of the flight. Instead, he gets the notification on his phone: Your flight DL1432 from Denver to New York has been cancelled.

Heart sinking, Tony yanks off his headphones just to catch the tail end of the flight attendant’s speech. “- so sorry,” she’s saying. “As many customers as possible will be incorporated on our next flight to New York later today. At this point, anyone who chooses to remain in Denver overnight will receive a free room, meal vouchers, and 10,000 free miles. If you are interested, please come speak with me and I can set that up for you.”

Unsurprisingly, none of the passengers look pleased. A few businessmen types are on the phone already, brows pinched and voice raised as they argue with whatever poor representative is on the other end of the line, like if they’re stubborn enough the airline can find a way to magically disappear snowstorms.

Tony - who’s an asshole, but not that kind of asshole, thank you very much - forces himself to take a breath and relax. It’ll be fine. This is a small setback, sure, but that’s it - a setback. Tony has platinum medallion status. If anyone is getting out of here on the next flight it’s him.

-

“I’m sorry sir,” the flight attendant tells him thirty minutes later when he finally spots a gap in the line at the desk. It appears the flight is currently fully booked.”

“I thought you said there was space,” Tony says. He’s trying not to be accusatory, he really is, but he needs to get the hell out of here. Just knowing Steve is nearby makes Tony feel anxious and small, like he’s the same twenty-four year old kid who got dumped by the man he thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with. He can’t do it.

“Unfortunately, we only had a few seats left,” the flight attendant tells him, with what he will later recognize as remarkable kindness considering the sheer volume of pissed-off passengers she must be dealing with. “These seats were distributed first to the disabled and to veterans, and unfortunately that filled all of our seats up.”

Tony is about to smack his head on the countertop when the full meaning of her words registers. “Wait,” he says, suddenly invigorated. “Veterans?”

“Yes, sir,” the attendant tells him. “Delta believes in honoring the brave men and women who serve our country, and as such we give them first priority -“

“No,” Tony says, waving a hand, “I totally get it, it’s a great policy, you’re right.” Steve is a veteran. Steve will be on that plane. Tony doesn’t love staying overnight in tiny little airports, but he can deal with it, as long as his ex isn’t stuck there, too. “Okay, this is fine, I can wait for tomorrow’s plane. What do I do now?”

The attendant looks surprised for a split second before she smooths her customer service smile back on. “Delta is currently reserving rooms for all grounded passengers at the local airport hotel,” she says. “We will be making announcements on the loudspeaker with updates and will also give you digital notifications. For now, here is a meal voucher. It is valid at any of the listed restaurants.”

Unsurprisingly, the bar is not listed, but Tony still smiles and thanks her for it. He’ll give this to some harried-looking family whose parents could probably use a win today, and he’ll go and suck down a few scotches, keep an eye on the Departures board until he’s sure Steve’s plane has left. Then he can relax.

See? Tony tells himself. You got this. Everything is going to work out just fine.

-

The second flight to New York also gets cancelled.

“I’m so sorry,” a flight attendant says over the speakers, cranked loud to remain audible over the sound of everyone’s groans. “The snowstorm has unfortunately not let up, so, for the foreseeable future, all flights are grounded.” There’s a crackling pause as the attendant ducks away to check something. “Unfortunately, airport shuttle services are currently non-functional as well. We are working diligently to get our planes and buses moving just as soon as we can, so in the meantime, we ask that you stick with us.”

Tony wonders if he could choke himself to death on the ball of ice in his glass. Probably. He doesn’t have a gag reflex anymore. But Pepper would be pissed.

Tony sighs and flags the bartender. “Another, please,” he says, sliding a fifty across the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” the bartender says, tucking the bill into his pocket. “Want to pay for your friend, too?”

Tony almost startles. “What?”

The bartender nods deliberately at someone in the corner, and when Tony turns, it’s Steve. Of fucking course it’s Steve. He blushes and jerks his gaze away from Tony as soon as he sees him looking, but the damage has been done.

Fuck. Tony sighs again. He runs through the facts. He’s trapped in this airport. He’s trapped in this airport for an indeterminate amount of time. He knows nobody in this airport but Steve. Steve is also trapped in this airport for an indeterminate amount of time. Steve shattered Tony’s heart five years ago, and Tony still hasn’t managed to put it back together. The idea of talking to Steve makes Tony feel like his lungs are flaying. The idea of being in close proximity to Steve makes Tony feels like his lungs are flaying. The idea of Steve makes Tony feels like his lungs are flaying. This isn’t a proximity issue at all; this is a mind game. Tony had only managed to recover as much as he had by pushing Steve from his mind, and now - well, regardless of whether Tony’s sitting next to Steve, having a chat and splitting a bowl of beer nuts, or at the other end of the hangar chewing at his nails as he watches Netflix, that won’t change.

“Whatever he wants,” Tony tells the bartender. “Tell him it’s on me.”

Tony does his best not to watch out of the corner of his eye as the bartender passes on the message, but Tony still catches the quick glimpse Steve sends his way. He clutches his phone a little tighter and focuses on what his therapist has told him: breathe in, breathe out, count to ten. A moment later, he feels movement as a heavy weight settles at the bar stool by his side.

“You don’t have to do this,” is the first thing out of Steve’s mouth, because of course it is. Tony shakes his head, crushes a peanut shell to dust between his forefinger and thumb.

“Shut up, Rogers.”

And, surprisingly, Steve does. The silence is awkward and stretching, but Tony is long past the point of caring. He sips his scotch, trying not to think about the waves of heat pouring off of Steve’s body next to him. Steve had always run so hot - Tony made jokes about it constantly, that he was a thermally hot as he was aesthetically, that he was Tony’s personal furnace. That’s right, Steve would say, and wrap Tony up in his big, steady arms. Always here to keep you warm.

Tony is jerked out of his reverie by the reappearance of the bartender carrying a glass of water. “Here you go,” he says, setting it in front of Steve. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Steve says politely, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Come on, I’m still rich, don’t get so stingy about using my money.”

Steve shrugs. “Doesn’t feel right.”

Tony barely resists another eye roll. “He wants a strawberry daiquiri,” Tony informs the bartender. “Unbearably sweet.”

The bartender waits for Steve’s nod before tossing his towel over his shoulder. “Be right up.”

The bar has grow exponentially busier in the last ten minutes - all the disgruntled passengers from cancelled flights coming to drink away their sorrows, surely - but it’s a big place and without music it’s so quiet that Tony can hear Steve breathing. Tony clears his throat. “So,” he says.

“So,” Steve repeats. The silence stretches and Tony is trying to come up with a simple enough topic of conversation, when Steve says, “Natasha got a pet spider. Did I tell you that?”

Throw off guard, Tony just shakes his head.

“Yeah,” Steve continues. “It’s not really a spider, it’s actually a robot, but it really acts just like a spider would. She won’t tell any of us where she got it and I’m about 90% sure it’s heavily armed but it acts really sweet. Is that weird to say about a robot? Anyway, it made me think of you, and your machines. Dummy. How did your AI programs ever work out, anyway?”

“Well, Dummy’s still around,” Tony says, and Steve smiles. “Just as idiotic as ever. Keeps trying to poison me with motor oil smoothies - yeah, I taught him to make smoothies, it was a bad call. He gets sad when I don’t eat them now, even though I’ve explained to him, like, thirty times that it’d kill me. I made him a couple brothers, You and Butterfingers. A little more advanced AI, but the same general thing.”

“That’s really awesome, Tony,” Steve says sincerely. His eyes are wide and glimmering in the dim light of the bar. No, Tony tells himself firmly. Focus on the robots.

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I, uh - probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I made a more comprehensive system, too. I call him JARVIS. He runs my - well, my life, basically. Technically just my house, though. He’s a real complete AI - not that Dummy isn’t complete, but, you know. Jarvis ticks all the boxes. Sentience, snark, whatever. He’s a godsend.”

“Wow,” Steve breathes. “That’s - I mean, I always knew you could do it, but that’s still insanely impressive. If you don’t mind me asking - I mean, I probably won’t understand it anyway, just tell me to fuck off if you want, but - you were always talking about ethics, figuring out how to program that into the computer. If you don’t mind, how the hell did you ever do that?”

And Tony’s off. Despite the awkwardness and years between them, the conversation comes as easily as it ever had, as long as Tony doesn’t think about the last time they met. And that’s a surprisingly easy thing to not think about; he gets caught up in the discussion, talking about the realities of AI and the newest car engines he’s building and the possible implications for his burgeoning work in clean energy. It’s been so long Tony had almost forgotten how well he and Steve had gotten along, what it really was, in the first place, that made him fall in love. Now, it all comes rushing back, rekindling a flame that never really died out: how considerate Steve is, how kind, his unexpected dry wit. He has a way of looking at you, when he’s listening, that has always made Tony pleasantly bare, known down to his core and accepted anyway. He grew a beard at some point, but he’s still got that flop of hair over his temple, the one Tony was constantly brushing out of his face when they kisses. Tony sees it now, and remembers a dozen moments: Steve ducking out of the shower, bangs stuck to his forehead; Steve bundled up in front of the TV in winter, hair floof sticking out of the top of his blanket burrito; Steve, biting his lip in front of the mirror as he tried and failed to comb his hair into submission. This and everything, and it sinks in slowly, as Tony sits at that bar: I could love him again. I probably still do.

By the time they’re interrupted by the loudspeaker, it’s getting late. Outside the gaping airport windows, the clouds grow darker as night falls, lopsided snowdrifts steadily building at the feet of waiting planes.

“Anyway,” Steve is saying, “the gallery did a run of my prints - not a very big one, mind you, just sort of a corner of the room, but I was pretty excited about it.”

“That’s great,” Tony says. “Your art is really awesome, Steve, it’s about time someone noticed.”

Steve ducks his head, rubbing a thumb around the rim of his empty glass. “It’s actually funny. I, uh, I actually made all of them, uh, after. They were, uh, well, they were kind of inspired -“

“Passengers of flight DL1432,” a flight attendant - a new, male one this time - says smoothly over the loudspeaker, “Please make your way to Gate 21B. We are now able to distribute dinner vouchers and hotel rooms.”

Tony’s still got his unused lunch voucher, but he would prefer not to sleep on the floor tonight. He glances at Steve, who’s already watching him, cheeks startlingly pink. “We should probably head out,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. He doesn’t want to press - they don’t have that relationship anymore and, besides, Tony’s not sure he’d like what he finds.

Steve hesitates, but follows suit when Tony rises, tossing another bill down on the table. “I can -“ Steve starts, but Tony waves a hand.

“Rich, remember?” he says.

He doesn’t turn to see Steve’s expression, because he’s sure that he won’t like. Instead, he sets off for the gate, knowing Steve has fallen into step beside him without needing to confirm it.

The bar is close to the gate, but by the time they get there, there’s already a line of fifteen people dangling out into the walkway. Tony sighs, but takes his place in line behind a family with a little boy whining about how he wants cake, and a baby girl laid across her mother’s shoulder. She meets his eyes and Tony grins, pulling a face. She giggles, stuffs her fist in her mouth, and slobbers all over it.

When Tony glances away from the baby and towards Steve, he’s got a strange look in his eye. “What?” Tony says, but Steve just shakes his head.

They fall into silence after that, the awkwardness from earlier on returning. And the longer they stand there, the worse it gets; stuck in his own head, Tony just ends up in a loop of his own thoughts, wondering what the hell he’s doing here, what he expects to gain from this. Closure? He’s too far gone for that, but what else can he expect, in the next day or so they’re stuck in this little airport. A rekindled friendship? A rekindled romance? The thought chokes Tony and he has to force his mind elsewhere. It’s not going to happen. Tony might not know how he feels, yet, but it doesn’t matter: Steve doesn’t want him.

Finally, they make it to the front of the line. “Hello,” the flight attendant says, sounding tired but smiling nonetheless. “Let me just see your tickets and I can get you your meal vouchers and a room here.”

Tony fishes his out from where it’s crumpled at the bottom of the bag; Steve’s, of course, is flawless when he presents it, surely kept tucked safely away between the pages of some book. “Okay,” the attendant says, clicking through some pages on his laptop. “You two are all set. Here are your vouchers, and your room key. You’ll be in Room 32.”

Finally Tony notices the singular he’s been using. “Um,” he starts, but Steve takes over for him.

“I’m afraid we’re not traveling together,” he informs him, “we just got to chatting at the bar. Could we get separate rooms?”

The attendant’s expression grows pinched. “I’m sorry, sirs,” he says, “But we’re not currently assigning rooms to single passengers. Several passengers so far have agreed to room in order to get a bed - will that work for you, or would you rather wait and see if we have rooms for singles available?”

Translation: do you want to suck it up, or sleep on the floor? Tony sighs. “This is fine,” he tells the attendant, taking their boarding passes and meal vouchers from him with the best smile he can manage. “Thanks.”

“Have a lovely evening,” the flight attendant says, like nothing at all is wrong. And, really, nothing is - except for the fact Tony’s snowed in at an airport, sharing a room with the ex who broke his heart five years ago, who he was never able to get over. Totally great.

“So,” Steve says a minute later, once they’ve cleared the way at the gate desk for the next group. “Do you, uh, want to get dinner?”

The idea of it feels awfully like a date, even though Tony knows it’s nothing of the sort. Then again, he just chatted with Steve at the bar for an hour and that’s a pretty date-like activity too. So Tony nods, holding out a meal voucher for Steve to take.

“You pick,” Tony says, which is how they end up at Panda Express.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” Steve says when he sees Tony wrinkle his nose, which, okay, true. Tony loves American Chinese food, mainly because he’s not Chinese so he doesn’t get mad about how inauthentic it is like he does with Italian places. It’s a propensity he’s had since he was in college, before he met Steve. There were dozens times in their relationship that Tony pouted and begged until Steve agreed to order Chinese food instead of Greek for dinner, for the fifth time in a row.

“You don’t know me,” Tony says, falling in line behind Steve. “My tastes could have changed in the last five years.”

Steve’s smile flickers. “Yeah,” he says, and wait, does he actually sound sad about that? “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

But it really isn’t, and feeling bad for a reason he can’t pinpoint, Tony orders exactly what he always used to: orange chicken, fried rice, and vegetables. The last is more of a habit than a taste - Rhodey and, later, Steve had always nagged him about how he was going to die of scurvy, and the few snap peas and broccoli heads were their compromise.

There are no tables open at tiny little restaurant, so they find a few open waiting chairs by an empty gate and settle down with their food.

Tony snaps his chopsticks open with a crack. “You still insist on using those?” Steve says, holding his own plastic fork.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “I mean, this is Chinese food,” Tony says. “Bad, Americanized Chinese food, but still. Why wouldn’t I use chopsticks?”

“Just seems more efficient to start with a fork,” Steve says. “Since you always end up using one anyway.”

It’s a joke; Tony knows it’s a joke. It’s a conversation they’ve had a dozen times over the course of their relationship, like their constant bickering over Yankees vs. Dodgers, red vs. blue, but it still makes something sour a bit in Tony’s mouth. He picks up a slippery piece of chicken decisively, and pops it into his mouth.

“Well, maybe I’m better at it now,” he says.

Steve shrugs, scooping up some fried rice on his fork. “Whatever you say.”

The rest of the meal passes in relative silence. Occasionally, Steve or Tony will make a comment about something, but the easy camaraderie of early has faded in the face of their situation. Tony’s almost finished his orange chicken when Steve speaks. “So,” he says slowly, and already Tony can tell this is something he isn’t going to like. Half of him wants to tell Steve to stop, but curiosity wins out and he stays silent. “I was, uh. I was saying earlier, at the bar, about those prints I made.”

“Yeah?” Tony prompts, poking a carrot around his plate with a chopstick.

“Yeah. I, uh - I hope this isn’t weird, but, um, well. I made them about you.”

Tony stills. Whatever he was expecting, this wasn’t it. “Is that so,” he says, voice coming out flat.

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Yeah, they were, uh - they were some of my best work.”

A sudden, indescribable anger bubbles in Tony’s chest. “Wow,” he says. “I’m so glad.”

A little furrow appears between Steve’s brows. “No, I don’t mean it like that, it was - god, I’m doing this wrong.” He pauses, takes a breath. “It was good because it was emotional. Because I was emotional. Because I missed you, Tony. You meant a lot to me. You mean a lot to me. I missed you then, and I miss you now.” He swallows. “I don’t know, I guess I just - want you to know that.”

Tony stares at him. “You want me to know that,” he says. “Well, thanks, Steve, for letting me know that. Glad to know your shitty decisions bit you in the ass too and not just me.”

“Tony,” Steve starts, but Tony shakes his head. God, why does it have to be like this with Steve? Why does he have to be so, so -

“No,” he says, rising so he’s looking down at Steve. “I’m not apologizing, I’m not gonna say I’m sorry you felt bad. It was your choice. You chose to do it when you did and how you did it, you are the reason I couldn’t talk about you for fucking months afterwards, let alone be friends with you. That’s on you.”

“I know,” Steve says, “Look, I know, it was bad that I did it so suddenly, but I just -“

“What?” Tony demands. “You were so freaked out by the thought of marrying me that you couldn’t stand another second?”

“Tony -“

“No,” Tony interrupts, “No, fuck you, Steve. If any part of you cared about me, you wouldn’t have done what you did. Not the way you did it.” He shakes his head. “God, I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s not worth it.” He grabs his bag from the chair and slings it over his shoulder. “I’m going to the bar. Don’t wait up.”

He tosses the room key at Steve’s chest, hearing a thump and then a jangle as it bounces from Steve’s still infuriatingly muscular pecs down into his sauce-stained box of Chinese food. Tony walks away and doesn’t look back.

-

Steve breaks things off with Tony five days after Tony proposes.

And, okay - Tony knows it was rash. He knows that. He knew it before he even bought the damn ring, but something about Steve - something about Steve turned off his brain, his logic and his genius and instead he just became a puddle of impulse. He’d seen the ring in a window and thought Steve, and Tony bought it.

He planned the proposal meticulously: stargazing on the roof, take-out from Steve’s favorite Thai place, donuts from the bakery across town they can never make it to. He got candles in Steve’s favorite scent, because maybe the wind won’t blow it all away, and set them up around a bed of pillows and blankets for snuggling. The whole thing was set up by the time Steve returned from work and made it up to the apartment roof, Steve’s eyes widened.

“Tony?” he asked.

“Just wanted to do something special,” Tony said, before Steve could ask. He moved forward to press a quick kiss to Steve’s lips, then handed him a wine glass, before tugging him down onto the blanket. They ate, Tony less than Steve, his stomach roiling with nerves the whole time. Then, finally, their dinner was done, and there was a moment of silence, a beat of Steve and Tony just smiling at each other. Tony got out the box. He perched on one knee.

“Steve,” he said, “Will you marry me?”

Steve gaped. His eyes were wide and shining and for a split second, Tony could have sworn he looked happy. He looked thrilled. But then the expression dimmed and pinched, and Steve reached out to snap the lid of the box closed. I’m sorry, he said, I just - I just need some time to think about this, okay? This is really big.

And despite the disappointment threatening to swallow his heart whole, Tony had nodded, tucking the ring away. “It’s okay,” he said, returning to his spot beside Steve. “Take all the time you need.”

Then, five days later, Steve sat Tony on the very same couch and broke up with him. “It’s not you,” he said, “It really isn’t,” which meant, of course, that it was. Tony had been so shocked, so shattered by the abrupt turn of events, that he’d had to leave the apartment without a goodbye, stumbling down the stairs and half a block down the road before he could find a little alley where he could curl up and cry. Later, he called Rhodey, who picked him up and brought him to his flat, gave him ice cream and tea and stroked Tony’s hair while he sobbed. Rhodey had gone back to get Tony’s things, too. Tony had deleted Steve’s number, and they had never spoken again.

-

Tony has enough scotch at the bar that, by the time he makes it back to the airport hotel, he’s sufficiently sloshed. He fumbles in his pockets for the key before he remembers he gave it to Steve, and knocks loudly on the door.

It swings open to reveal Steve in the same sweats as earlier, though his hair is messier than usual, like he’d been resting. “Steve,” Tony says, tone sharp. Wordlessly, Steve steps aside.

Tony doesn’t realize the bed is untouched until he flops down on it, shucking his bag over in the corner. “What -“ Then he spots the pile of blankets on the floor, the pillow. Steve is trying to sleep on the ground.

Tony rolls over until he’s facing the wall, kicking his legs until his shoes finally come flying off. “Get in bed,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. His voice sounds distorted, but maybe that’s just the alcohol. “I can sleep on the floor, it’ll be fine.”

Tony rolls over to face the ceiling. “You have a bad back,” he says. “You haven’t been able to sleep on the floor since Afghanistan. Get on the fucking bed.”

A pause, and then a shuffle of blankets. And then Steve is crawling in bed next to Tony, sliding under the covers. “Here,” he says, when Tony doesn’t move, and passes him the still-warm blankets he’d just been using. They smell like Steve, and Tony hates that, hates the smell and the fact he recognizes it so easily, hates the fact he doesn’t hate it at all.

Still, it’s cold, so Tony yanks one over his body. It’s fine. This is all fine. Tomorrow, he can go home.

-

“I’m sorry, sir,” the attendant tells Tony, when he shows up the next morning to ask about the status of the flight. “The snowstorm has worsened overnight. It looks like a blizzard.”

Tony had woken up to an empty bed that morning, and an empty room. There will so little evidence that Steve had ever been there that Tony was starting to wonder if he’d hallucinated it, until he realized the sound of a running shower was coming from this room, not their neighbor. Deciding he was too tired and hungover for another confrontation, Tony had all but scrambled out of bed and got out of the room as quickly as possible, with his pounding hangover headache, as when the water was turning off.

The first thing he’d done was check in at the gate about his flight, but now that he knows that’s a bust, he debates what to do. He has his laptop, and his charger. He could work on schematics for his clean energy project, but today’s a meeting day, and even if Tony’s not in New York, he’s definitely going to be expected to teleconference in. Tony manages to talk his way into the first class lounge, and he spends the morning there, snacking on fresh fruit and crackers from the buffet and sipping cup after cup of coffee as investors drone on in his ear.

Steve is not a first class passenger, of course, so Tony manages to make it the whole morning without running into him. It’s only when he emerges from the first class lounge - which, stupid call, stupid, stupid call, but Tony wanted a little less healthy fare than the stuff they were serving in the lounge, sue him - that he finally spots him. He’s sitting in one of the waiting chairs, a black sketchbook spread out across his lap and a look of concentration on his face that Tony is intimately familiar with. Tony can’t tell what he’s sketching from this distance, so he doesn’t realize he’s in the sightline until Steve glances up, straight at him.

Immediately, Steve moves as if to get up, but Tony shakes his head, taking an unconscious step back. Steve pauses, and Tony shakes his head again. No, he mouths. No.

Tony had always thought Steve looked like a golden retriever, but the similarity is even more striking when sad. Those puppy eyes had gotten Tony do a number of ridiculous things over the years, but not now. Tony turns away, ignoring the twisting in the pit of his belly, and makes for the convenience store. He stocks up on enough candy for the afternoon, and a pair of spare headphones, then heads back to the first class lounge, where he spends the rest of the evening. By the time he returns back to the room, it’s late enough that Steve is either asleep or pretending to be, an act Tony appreciates. He slides in bed, feeling exhausted, but lays awake for hours before he can finally fall asleep.

The next day is much the same. Today when Tony wakes, Steve is still in bed, lightly snoring, so Tony tiptoes out of the room, leaving the key on Steve’s bedside table. It’s too early for the lounge to be open, so he gets a Starbucks and checks in with a flight attendant: much the same. “Things are looking good for tomorrow, though,” she says hopefully, and, mentally, Tony crosses his fingers. The sooner he gets out of here the better.

So he spends the day avoiding Steve again. His shitty nights sleep has left him especially tired, though, so he returns to the room earlier, at a time Steve might still be awake. And still awake he is.

Steve is sprawled across the floor, legs at odd angles, leaning back against the bottom of the bed. There’s a tiny little bottle in one of his giant hands, and when Tony glances over, sure enough the trash can is full of minibar bottles, too.

“Wow,” Tony says. “Drunk.”

Steve’s gaze flickers to his and his expression falls in despair. “Tony,” he says, like Tony’s the worst possible person he could see right now, and yeah, sure, that stings. It’s fair - Tony’s not exactly the best to be around - but still. Steve sighs, letting his head fall back so it lands on the mattress. “I’m so fucking sorry, Tony.”

And that - okay, that wasn’t exactly what Tony was expecting. He doesn’t say anything, though, settling his things down on the desk and waiting for Steve to speak.

“I fucked up,” Steve says eventually. “God, I fucked up - so bad, Tony. I hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He sounds so guilty, so sad and childlike, that it actually makes Tony’s heart pang with a tinge of sympathy. Damn it. “It’s not that bad,” Tony says, turning to catch Steve’s eye. “I mean, in the end, you didn’t want to be with me. And you realized it. And - I guess it’s better that you broke it off than strung me along.”

But Steve is shaking his head with the sort of fervor only a drunk man can manage. “No,” he says vehemently, “No, Tony, that’s not it at all. I wanted to marry you, Tony. I really, really did.”

And that - well. Tony feels his heart stuttering in his chest. “What?” he says, a bit faint. “What do you mean you -“

“I wanted to say yes when you proposed to me,” Steve slurs. He’s not looking at Tony, now, opting instead to pick at the label of the mini-vodka bottle in his hand. “I loved you - god, I loved you so fucking much Tony. You - you’re incredible. Of course I wanted to -“ He shakes his head, upends the bottle over his lips, but only a drop or two of liquor comes out. He tosses the bottle aside, and even with drunk aim, it lands square in the trash can. Steve sighs.

“That’s the problem,” Steve informs the trash can. “You’re incredible. You’re - so much. So big, such big love and talent and, and - what could I give you? I’m just a fucking loser.” Steve breathes out in a huff, squeezing his eyes shut. “That’s why I broke up with you. Because you deserve better.”

For a long moment, Tony can’t bring himself to move. This is - what? Tony feels like there are snakes in his belly, snakes in his chest, snakes in his veins. He doesn’t know what to do, can barely can what’s happening. What other lies has Tony been sold?

“You’re right,” Tony says hoarsely, and Steve’s eyes flicker open, his gaze sliding over to meet Tony’s. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

He kicks off his shoes and sheds his watch and climbs into bed, over the covers, under the spare blankets. He can’t deal with this right now. This - this - he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on breathing, counting to ten. Despite his best efforts, it’s not until Steve climbs into bed that he’s able to fall asleep.

-

The next morning, Tony wakes up to warm hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” whoever it is whispers, and as their face comes into focus it all comes back to Tony - the airport, the cancellation, the hotel room. Last night’s revelations. Tony pushes himself up with one hand, scrubs at his eyes with the other.

“What.”

“The snow has cleared.” Steve’s still whispering, for whatever reason - surely, the walls aren’t that thin that his regular speaking voice would wake someone? “They’re planning to take off in an hour. You should grab breakfast before we board.”

Tony glances over at the clock. 6:15 AM. Not the best, but not the worst either. He nods and turns away from Steve, sliding his watch on his wrist.

He can feel Steve behind him, still hovering. His damn body heat gives him away every time. “What? Is there something else?”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve says, “Yeah, I just - I wanted to say sorry about last night. That was inappropriate of me, to get so drunk, and you -“

“I got smashed the first night we were here,” Tony dismisses easily as he slides his shoes on. “Don’t worry about it, Steve.”

There’s a pause as Steve clearly thinks something over. “Okay,” he finally says. “I’m - I’m glad.”

In truth, Tony doesn’t know what to do or feel. Steve is just so - Steve. Somehow, despite all the years that have passed, he’s still the exact same person Tony fell in love with, the exact same person Tony loves, despite his flaws. Which mean someone kind and generous enough to put others needs before his own, but also someone stubborn and righteous enough to do that in whatever way he thought was necessary, damn the consequences.

“I’m going to Starbucks,” Tony says finally, once he’s wrapped up his few meager possessions. “Do you want anything?”

Steve looks up from where he’s packing his own backpack, eyes wide and surprised. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Black coffee, please? And a croissant? I’ll pay you back.”

Tony rolls his eyes and doesn’t even grace that with a comment, letting the door swing shut behind him. The line is relatively short at Starbucks this early, all the other passengers still getting their starts too, so Tony moves through the checkout quickly and manages to snag a table. He’s waiting there, picking at his muffin, when Steve arrives.

“I turned in our room key,” Steve says, and Tony hums around the lid of his coffee cup. He’s got some schematics open on his phone he’s looking over - a pet project R&D’s been working on that Tony likes to keep a close eye on - so he’s not very talkative. Today, though, the silence as they eat feels easier, more natural than the days before. They finish eating at the same time, and by the head to the gate, they’re calling up first class passengers.

“Well,” Steve says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “It’s - maybe this sounds stupid, but it’s been really good to see you again, Tony.”

Tony looks over at him. “Yeah,” he finds himself saying, “Yeah, you too.”

It doesn’t make Steve smile; instead, his expression grows pinched. “I really am sorry, Tony,” he says. “I can’t tell you how much.”

Tony takes a breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Count to ten. “I know,” he says. “You know, Steve, we were young. We’re still young, but we - we really were.” He swallows. “For what it’s worth, I forgive you.” Steve’s body jolts, like someone’s given him an electric shock, but Tony plods on, “It was the wrong way about it, but you had good intentions. You always have tried to be the best you could. I love that about you. I’m tired of holding it against you.” Tony reaches out to Steve’s frozen form, giving him a pat on the shoulder and offering him a careful smile. “Maybe I’ll see you in New York sometime, hey?”

Steve just blinks at him. Still smiling, Tony takes a step back, hefts his bag. “Bye, Steve,” he says, and turns to board the plane.

-

The next few days are hell.

The flight is smooth and uneventful, and because it’s a relatively large plane, Tony’s tucked away in the nose of the first class cabin, up where he won’t see Steve. He unloads first, and gets his luggage first, and is in the back of Happy’s car before Steve is probably even out of the bathrooms.

“You okay?” Happy asks with a frown, as Tony settles into the backseat. Happy always gets worried when Tony doesn’t want to drive.

“Fine, Hap,” Tony says. “Let’s just go home.”

Happy doesn’t push the issue, thankfully, and soon enough Tony is home: back in his big, bright, empty tower, with it’s big, bright, empty rooms. He heads down to the workshop for a bit, but every time he thinks of Dummy he can’t help but think of Steve - Steve, five years ago, laughing as Dummy chased him around their living room, Steve, two days ago, lit up gold by the dim bar lighting and listening intently as Tony went on and on about what he wants to teach Dummy next.

So he takes the elevator up to his room and curls up in the big, empty bed. It’s barely afternoon, but Tony hasn’t slept at all over the past few days, and eventually, he manages to drift off.

He makes it into work the next day, and the day after that, and things seem to return to their previous pattern of normal. To a certain point, at least: on the outside, Tony is doing the exactly same things he was before he went on his business trip, but on the inside he’s still swirling. He can’t stop thinking about Steve, and what’s he’s doing, and whether he should show up at the address JARVIS found listed for Steve online.

He’s spared that decision, though, when, three days after he returns home, Tony gets a notification from Jarvis. “Sir,” he says, interrupting Tony’s mindless soldering. “There is an intern here with a package.”

Tony frowns, flicking the soldering goggles up. It’s a Saturday - what kind of business package might be here for him on a Saturday? “Let him in, Jay.”

The intern is one of Tony’s favorites, a bright kid named Peter who always seems to be smiling. “Got your package, sir,” he says, passing it over. It’s more of an envelope than a package, big and flat and square. “You need anything else?”

“Actually, yeah,” Tony says. “Dummy’s been looking a little bored, wanna try to teach him something?”

Jarvis sets Peter up teaching Dummy one of the skills they’re working on, and when Tony’s sufficiently satisfied his lab is not going to be accidentally blown up, he finds a knife and cuts open his package. It’s a single piece of card stock, and for a moment, when Tony pulls it out he’s confused. Then he flips it over.

It’s a print. A print of Tony. His hair, specifically: wild and curled and splayed against what must be a pillow, the whole thing cut with triangles of moonlight, done in soft shades of purple. Tony knows who the artist is even without looking the yellow Post-it at the bottom of the print, but he reads it anyway.

Tony,

I had given up hope on you forgiving me. So when you said you did, it was a shock. Now I can’t stop think about what other things I’ve given up on that might still be a possibility.

I love you, Tony. I never stopped. I hope you love me, too. If you do, I’m be downstairs in the lobby. If not, just tell Jarvis to tell me to fuck off. But please don’t tell Jarvis to tell me to fuck off.

Love,

Steve

Tony can feel his heart behind his eyelids, it’s pounding so fast. He loves me, Tony thinks, he still loves me, and, God, Tony misses him. He misses his eyes and his hair and his stupid too-small t-shirts, the weird way he pronounces aluminum, the warmth of his body, the ache of his kiss. Tony wants him, wants him so fucking badly, and maybe this is a bad idea. No, scratch that, he knows it’s a bad idea, knows if Rhodey were here he’d be locking him up and telling him to sit the hell down, but Tony -

Tony doesn’t care.

I love him, he thinks, and makes for the elevator.

“Uh, Mr. Stark?” he hears Peter call after him as the doors close, but Tony can barely process it. He can barely process anything. “Lobby, Jay,” Tony says, and is surprised to find his voice scratchy.

“Certainly, sir.”

Tony’s still holding the print. It’s fucking gorgeous. Steve was right about that too: this is some of his best work.

When the elevator doors slide open to the lobby, Tony is temporarily overwhelmed. A crowd of people waits to get on the elevator, and he has to brush past them into the brightly-lit room, gaping and large, searching the faces. Steve? Steve? Where’s Steve?

“Tony,” someone says, and Tony whirls to find Steve standing behind him, eyes wide.

“Steve,” Tony breathes.

“You got my message?” Steve says, then makes a face. “I mean, of course you got my message, you’re here - unless, you don’t want to see me, in which case, I can leave -”

Tony reaches out and snags Steve by the shoulder before he can move. “Shut up.”

“Uh.” Steve licks his lips, a tiny flick of his tongue that draws Tony’s eyes to his mouth. Wow, Tony wants to kiss him. “Okay. I mean, did you have anything you wanted to say, then, or -”

“I love you,” Tony interrupts. Tony feels like he’s tumbling off the edge of a cliff, but it feels good, almost like flying. “I want to try again. I want you, Steve, I -”

He’s cut off by the press of Steve’s lips against his, urgent and sloppy. Tony knots one hand in Steve’s hair, and after a moment, Steve relaxes, letting the kiss turn soft and comfortable. Familiar. “Tony,” Steve murmurs between kisses. “Oh, Tony.”

Eventually, it gets to be too much, and Tony has to break away. Not too far, though; he leans his forehead against Steve’s, settles his hands on Steve’s jaw. “I need you to promise me,” he manages finally, “Promise me, you won’t -”

“I promise,” Steve swears. “I promise, I will not fuck this up again.”

It's not exactly what Tony is thinking, but it’s enough. Tony tucks his face into Steve’s neck, breathing deep. He counts to ten. He feels warm.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know if there are any important tags that i've missed!


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